


Focus On Me

by Cawaiiey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Old Men Crying, ask to tag, isnt that a tag lmao, prompt ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: He’s heard those words so many times before. They’re familiar. Heartbreakingly so.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】【R76】看着我 Focus On Me by Cawaiiey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447853) by [wyl50](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyl50/pseuds/wyl50)



> THE P ROMPT For this one:   
>  #9 We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.r76   
> so here we go

_ Breathe. In. Out. Slowly.  _

Jack tries to focus solely on his breathing, rather than the sirens in the distance, or the sound of the helicopter searching the streets, the sound of heavy footsteps running up and down alleyways in pursuit of them, and the feel of the man that is pressed against him. A man that is far less of a mortal being and more of a wraith swathed in black leather, with a mask of death that is pointed in his direction. Not that it has anywhere else to point, what with how close they are in proximity to each other. A necessity to be close to Reaper, considering the authorities were after them. 

_ Reaper _ . 

The reason why they were in this mess in the first place was the wraith’s fault. Well. Actually, Jack was a big part of it too, considering he was a lawless vigilante that, “didn’t play by the rules,” (god, what a stupid line, he regrets ever saying it sometimes), and, well… Not playing by “the rules” definitely made him an enemy of the law. Reaper was a part of a criminal organization so of course he was wanted by the police. So, after chasing him through the streets of whatever city he’d tracked him to this time, the pair found themselves cornered by police cars, with a helicopter shining right down on them. 

Jack would be damned if he let the police get his target, someone he’s been trying to bring to justice for years now. 

So, with a brief look towards Reaper, they’d took off, down alleyways and streets. The wraith was inhumanely fast, and Jack could keep up due to all of the shit they pumped into him as part of the SEP. He hadn’t even realized he’d been following the bastard until he’d whirled on him and grabbed the front of his jacket with clawed gloves. Jack expected to have to fight, his trigger finger itching to pull, when Reaper had yanked him into a decrepit building and hid them both beneath a counter, where they couldn’t be seen from the outside.

Unfortunately, the space was rather small, and he ended up pressed chest-to-chest with Reaper below him, their legs entangled, his pulse rifle laying off to the side. Within reach, of course, but not uncomfortably shoved between them. Though, Jack realizes, he should be much more uncomfortable without it, seeing as he was so close to the enemy. He should be uncomfortable, nervous, anxious with the position. Instead, he feels nothing of that sort for the man beneath him, and all of that for the sound of footsteps approaching their position. Footsteps that are getting  _ louder closer fuck they’re going to be- _

“Soldier,” he hears Reaper rasp, loud enough for him to hear, “calm down,” his clawed gloves dig into his sides, and that should be a warning sign, a signal that, police be damned, he shouldn’t be in this situation, but it helps him relax a little bit, like an anchor, “you’re going to compromise our position.” Jack turns his head to stare into that mask, ivory, carved like bone, and he’s close enough to watch the smoke rise out from the crevices, the open spaces that allow for the black tendrils to creep out and darken the air around them. The wraith leans forward a bit, and their masks clink (this is terribly intimate, Jack should leave, he should run, he should find another place to hide), “focus on me.” 

Jack watches the man inhale, slow and deep, and then exhale, black smoke rushing out from the openings on his mask. He does it again, and Jack finds himself matching him, exhale for inhale, inhale for exhale. Breathing him in. He breathes him back in in kind. Calm washes over him in waves, though he’s pressed against the enemy, and the footsteps are getting louder and closer, Reaper somehow keeps him focused.

_ Focus on me _ . 

He’s heard those words so many times before. They’re familiar. Heartbreakingly so.

He’d heard them during his injections, when the needle was pressed against his vein and he was being pumped full of something that made him simultaneously warm and cold. When he thought panic would set in, that he would rip his arm away and the needle out because  _ fuck _ how could he take this, months of this program, and he’d felt a hand squeeze his from the chair next to him. Jack had turned his head and caught his friend’s gaze, umber flecked with gold staring at him with so much  _ warmth _ , and those lips had parted in a whisper of, “ _ focus on me _ .” 

He’d heard them in the heat of battle, when he thought they were done for. With the scent of gunpowder and blood overwhelming his senses, of energy sizzling off of his pulse rifle, and the sight of omnics on the horizon that were surely going to take them over. When he felt the niggling sense of dread in the back of his mind, in the pit of his stomach, and his footsteps faltered. Over the coms, with a hint of static, background noise of missiles and screams, he’d heard them, like a ray of hope, “ _ focus on me, Jackie _ ,” and he’d glanced over to see him running forward with all the strength and grace that Jack could only dream of having. He’d focused, they’d won, saved the day, and he had him to thank for it. Always.

He’d heard them the first time he’d been splayed beneath his late lover, when fear of pain had him tensing up, despite the careful way he’d been stretched open. And Jack knew it would feel great, his lover had shown him with thick, gun-calloused fingers twisting him open and pressing into him in heavenly ways. But he’d heard so many horror stories, he couldn’t help but clench up in terror. His late lover had pressed their foreheads together, had kissed him so sweetly and tenderly, and whispered into Jack’s waiting mouth what he always said that never failed to calm him down, “ _ focus on me, cariño _ .”

He’d heard them when they’d been in front of a group of their family and friends, sat in pretty wooden pews, watching the pair of them. Anxiety had pricked like ice at his insides, terrified he would mess up his vows, would say something wrong and, could he really do this, was he good enough for the light of his life? Would they be happy, knowing one day, one of them wouldn’t come back from a mission? But then his hands were taken in the other’s, and his head turned to face him, his umber eyes searching Jack’s face with that smile on his lips, and he’d mouthed the words he always said when Jack was afraid, “ _ focus on me, mi sol _ .” The night had ended happy, with a ring around his finger, and his husband in his arms. 

He’d heard those words when the building was crumbling down around them. When his life was crashing down on his head. When he wondered what it all meant, every second, every kiss, every “I love you”, every “I’ve got your six”, what all of these years fucking meant, because his lover had been standing above him with a gun pointed to Jack’s head, staring down at him with eyes that once glittered with gold and warmth and were suddenly so cold. The building alight with flames around them reflected in the umber of his irises, scalding them from brown to scarlet, and his scarred lips pulled into the meanest grin he’d ever seen on him before. But, fuck, he should’ve known the  _ signs _ they were all there, staring him in the face, in the lack of touches, in the roughness when they had sex, in the way he’d stopped wearing his wedding ring, he’d ignored all of it when he’d been appointed Strike Commander, until it was too late. Until he was watching his entire life fall apart, and his Gabriel was standing above him, and he shouted over the roar of the flames, “ _ focus on me, Morrison _ ,” and- 

An explosion engulfed them both, buried them in the rubble, and he’d emerged as Soldier76 from the flames, while Gabriel Reyes had stayed buried and dead. 

_ Buried and dead _ . 

Jack doesn’t realize he’s crying until Reaper’s clawed glove leaves his hip and grabs at his mask. He hisses and twists, trying to get away from him, to keep his identity a secret, and he can’t hear any footsteps or the helicopter anymore, so he could get away. Grab the gun. Press it to Reaper’s chest and pull the trigger, riddle him with pulse rounds until the wraith was nothing more than remnants of black smoke and the scent of charcoal. 

The other hand on his hip wraps tightly around his waist. The man is strong and solid and he is pinned into place, a horrible position to be in, as Reaper’s claws yank at the covering of his mask and pull the metal off. Exposed. He stares down at the man below him, feeling his breath catch in his throat at the sight of his mask of bone up close. Reaper makes a noise underneath him, something between despair and relief, and Jack grunts in confusion, bracing his hands against the man’s chest with the intent of running if anything happens. He wants to reach for the familiar, comforting weight of his gun. He wants to get out of this situation. He flinches when the man raises a clawed hand up and lightly presses the tip of his index finger against Jack’s skin. Tears sluice down his cheeks and settle in the curve of the metal that hugs his jaw and neck, and he can’t make them stop. Reaper trails the steel along the curve of his cheekbone, up to his temple, along the wrinkles that cut into his forehead, down the opposite side of his face. Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t even dare to breathe, and he doesn’t protest. The wraith takes it as an invitation, as his claw lingers against his skin, and then travels down to his lips. It catches on his bottom lip, drags it down slightly, before letting it go. 

Jack snaps back to awareness, yanking his head away from the man and struggling against his hold. He hears the man hiss and tighten his hold on him, keeping him pinned, even as Jack raises his fist. Reaper snarls, black smoke pluming from his mask, as his hand smashes, palm first, against his face and shoves him backwards. He feels the back of his head smack into the bottom of the counter they were hidden under, and gasps at the pain that blossoms from the point of contact. The wraith’s arm is a constant presence around his middle, and he is painfully aware of it, though he doesn’t want to be. The memories of Gabriel make him crave something that has been dead and gone for far too long. 

He blinks stars out of his eyes, trying to refocus on Reaper under him, as the wraith reaches the clawed glove up to his mask. With one blink, Reaper is wearing the mask, and, after the next, the skull is gone and he is staring at a face that is far too familiar to him. Someone that should be  _ buried and dead _ . The pallor of his face is different, is a dark grey as opposed to the warm mocha he was in love with, and his eyes are not umber, they’re the color of the flames that engulfed the both of them in Switzerland, and his smile isn’t present on those scarred lips, they’re drawn into a snarl. A sight so familiar, yet so odd, so  _ impossible _ , that Jack can only stare. 

“No, no, no,” Jack gasps, struggling against the man’s hold and trying not to succumb to the panic that is rising up inside him, bubbling and spitting, “you’re dead, no, fuck, you’re supposed to be dead!”

“Jack, focus on me,” he stops fighting the minute he hears those words. A phrase with memories so bittersweet that the mere thought of them threatens to send him spiraling back into his mind. The voice isn’t the exact same. It’s more raspy, like he hadn’t used it in a while, or had used it to much. Like if he had been screaming and sobbing, trapped underneath the rubble of their Swiss headquarters, until someone had pulled him from the debris, but his voice was already shot. He remembers when it only had a slight rasp to it, from years of inhaling gunpowder and smoke. It doesn’t match his memories, just like his the color of his face is off, throwing everything slightly off-kilter. Jack stares down at him, trying to figure out if this was a panic-induced dream or if he was real, if he was here. 

Reaper reaches a hand up, holding the side of his face in that clawed hand, and he leans into it, chasing the distant memories of warmth that accompanied Gabriel’s touch. Jack can’t help the shuddery breath that spills out of his lips, washing over the wraith’s leather-clad wrist. He’s shaking. He can’t stop. Not when the memory of his dead husband is underneath him, dressed in his enemy’s clothes, looking every bit himself except for the lack of warmth, painted in grayscale as he was. Jack wants to shut his eyes and imprint the sight of Gabriel, even as he was now, onto his eyelids, but he’s afraid if he closes them, he’ll open them to see Reaper once more. He won’t have that, not now, not after seeing his husband again, when the last time they saw each other was… 

“You tried to kill me,” Jack mutters against his palm. Flinching underneath him, Gabriel’s fingers twitch against his face, but his expression isn’t surprised. He looks resigned, as if he knew this was going to be brought up but that he hoped it wouldn’t be. Jack watches his face contort, feels him start to stroke his cheekbone with one clawed thumb, and his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest. Gabe opens his mouth once, twice, three times, trying and failing to say something to Jack’s statement. On the fourth try, he finally manages.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “Jackie, I was mad, so mad, so bitter at you- no, at  _ them _ , for giving you what I thought was mine,” his other arm unwraps from around his waist, and the lack of the pressure there makes Jack want to sob, as Gabriel grabs his face with the other hand, forcing Jack to look at him, “I let it consume me. I let it control me. There were people in Blackwatch who said they were going to burn Overwatch to the ground and I,” he paused to suck in a breath and, when he exhales, it comes out as black plumes of smoke, “I joined them because I didn’t want to work for an organization that fucked me over like that.” 

His thumbs trace along his cheekbones, cold steel on his overheated flesh, and Jack can’t fight it anymore. His eyes slip shut, hot tears spilling out of them, as Gabriel keeps talking, explaining himself for what he did all those years ago, “and I wanted you to die. I wanted you to die with it. But, hell, if I was killing you, I was going to go with you,” he barks out a laugh, one hand carding through his thatch of silver hair that once was the color of sunshine, “til’ death do us part, right  _ mi sol _ ?” 

Jack barks out a laugh, broken and hollow, as he starts to sob. Gabriel’s claws scratch along his scalp, soothing and welcome despite how menacing they feel on his skin. “I’m sorry, Jackie, I’m sorry, and to think, we’ve been trying to kill each other again this whole time. Fuck, I’m so-” 

“I’m sorry,” Jack chokes out between hiccuping breaths that shake his shoulders with every inhale, “I’m so sorry that I didn’t notice. Should’ve- Should’ve turned down the position, it was yours, you were always-” 

“Open your eyes, Jackie,” and he does, though his vision is blurred with the tears that threaten to never stop, while Gabriel’s hands pull him down, closer to his face. He knows what’s coming. He shakes in anticipation, missing the touch of his lover for decades now, and he tilts his head like Gabriel taught him to do, eyes still open and locked on the man’s familiar, yet so different, irises. Seconds before they collide, he says what he always does, and Jack melts against him, years of longing and missing evident in the seam of his lips against Gabriel’s cold ones.

“Focus on me,  _ cariño. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> henlo i dont write r76 often lemme know whatcha whatcha think


End file.
